Degradation

by Stylo Fantome

  “How could you let me come here? I thought we were friends. How could you do this to me?” Tate whispered.

  “Because I told him to.”

  They both turned to see Jameson standing in the middle of his bedroom. He took off his suit jacket and then rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Took off his watch and threw it onto the side table. Sanders cleared his throat.

  “Sir, I think you owe it to Ms. -,”

  “Leave.”

  Glancing at Tate once, Sanders walked out of the room. Tate struggled to even out her breathing and entered the bedroom proper. Jameson was carrying his suitcase in to his closet. There was a clattering of hangers and he walked back out with a new shirt in his hands.

  “Why?” Tate whispered. He lifted his eyes to hers. A pair of blue ice cycles. It felt like it had been longer than a month since she had last seen him. She felt like she was looking at a stranger.

  Did I ever know him?

  “What’s that, baby girl?” Jameson asked, changing in to the fresh shirt.

  “Don’t call me that!” she snapped. He chuckled.

  “I call you anything I want,” he replied.

  “Not anymore. Why are you doing this? What did I do to you?” she asked.

  “It’s all a game, isn’t it? I thought you liked games,” Jameson said, throwing the worn shirt onto his bed.

  “Fuck your games,” Tate hissed.

  “See, now that sounds more like you. It was a very long flight, baby girl, and I could really use something to relax me. Feel like getting on your knees?” he asked. She guffawed.

  “Not fucking likely. Ask your girlfriend to do that for you,” she told him.

  “But I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Really? Seems to me there is a five-foot-ten ‘Danish beauty’ who would argue that point,” Tate pointed out. He sighed.

  “There you go again, making assumptions. Would you like to meet her? You’d probably get along,” he said.

  “Why are you doing this!? What happened that made you so mad!? I waited for you! Just like you said! Why did you ask me to wait if you were just going to bring her home!?” Tate yelled at him.

  “You don’t like seeing my picture in the tabloids, right? Well, I like it even less,” he suddenly said. She was lost.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I don’t like being made a fool of, Tate. And that’s what I feel like you did,” he informed her.

  “What the fuck are you talking about!?” she shrieked.

  “You’re upset about pictures of me and Pet online? In the tabloids? How about pictures of you and a certain baseball player, in the fucking social pages of the goddamn Boston Globe!? How about seeing those on the fucking internet? You and him together, everywhere. Pictures of you and me are already out there, and suddenly I’m hearing from people I hardly know that a girlfriend I don’t technically have is fucking a goddamn Red Sox!” Jameson yelled at her. Tate started laughing.

  “Are you fucking shitting me!? Fuck this, I’m getting the fuck out of here. Fuck your party, fuck your supermodel, and fuck you,” she swore, stomping past him. He grabbed her arm, his grip like a vice.

  “Oh, you’re not going anywhere, baby girl. Because it’s all a game, and if you walk away now, you lose,” he warned her.

  “Fuck your games. I don’t want to play games. You’re really upset about that? I can’t believe it. The Great Jameson Kane, jealous. I can’t fucking believe it,” Tate snarled at him.

  “Watch how you talk to me,” he warned her.

  “Fuck you. He and I were just friends, you asshole. We’re friends. You go off to fuck the entire country of Germany, and I can’t make a new fucking friend? You wanna know the truth? He asked me out. He didn’t try to sleep with me. He wanted to see me. Date me. And I’m a stupid bitch, because I turned him down! I was stupid enough to think I had something better coming home!” Tate yelled.

  “I certainly won’t argue with the stupid bitch part,” Jameson told her.

  “Go fuck yourself, Kane.”

  “I think that’s your job.”

  “You’re jealous! All this elaborate planning, hiding from me, bringing her back here, making a scene. You’re like a girl, Kane. A goddamn pussy,” she snapped at him, disdain dripping from her words.

  He roughly dragged her across the room, backed her up and slammed her against the wall by the door. She struggled to free her arm, shoving and pushing at him. He moved his hand to her throat and pinned her in place.

  “I told you to watch how you fucking speak to me,” Jameson growled, his face near hers.

  “Like I give two shits. Was it worth it? Is she still a good fuck? I hope so. I hope she’s so good that she finally does trick you in to marrying her. I hope she fucks you all the way in to a horrible fucking marriage, and then takes all your goddamn money. I hope she’s that good of a fuck!” Tate yelled, pulling at his wrist. His fingers squeezed harder on her neck, but she didn’t show any reaction.

  “She was never even half as good as you. But maybe we should have Ang fuck her, really do a cross-comparison, get more feedback,” Jameson suggested.

  “Why stop there? How about we broaden the circle. There’s an awful lot of men down there, and I haven’t been fucked in a really long time. I’m sure I’ll get rave reviews, much better than a psychotic supermodel,” Tate said in a quiet voice. He narrowed his eyes.

  “If you’re fucking anyone at this party, it will be me,” Jameson informed her. She laughed.

  “That’s not going to happen, but maybe we can do the next closest thing. How about I fuck Sanders. I’m sure I could turn his world inside out. Hell, maybe even steal him away from you. Who knows, maybe he’ll be a better fuck than you,” she said.

  The words had barely left her mouth when Jameson put his fist through the wall, right next to her head. Clean through the sheet rock. She was glad he hadn’t hit a stud – that would put a damper on the party, real quick. He stared at her, his eyes blazing, a muscle ticking in his jaw, his fingers continuing to squeeze her neck. She glared right back, not moving a muscle.

  “Don’t ever fucking talk about him like that again,” he whispered.

  “You don’t get to tell me what to do. Not anymore. Not ever again,” she whispered back. Jameson squeezed her neck tight one last time, and then let go, backing away from her.

  “We can talk about this later. Go downstairs. People are expecting you to be here. Be cordial. Be fucking polite. And don’t say one goddamn word to Sanders,” he told her, and then yanked open his bedroom door, striding in to the hall.

  Tate gasped in air and choked on a sob. She brought the back of her wrist to her mouth, trying to hold it all in; it didn’t work too well. She wasn’t sure what to do. She couldn’t go home, not without Sanders to drive her, and she didn’t think he’d leave the party. Didn’t trust him, anyway. A taxi would take forever to get there, and she didn’t have any money. She sucked in another breath of air, held it in, then let it out slowly. She straightened out her dress, wiped underneath her eyes.

  You can do this. You’re Tatum O’Shea. He didn’t break you last time. He won’t break you this time.

  She went downstairs. She was cordial. She was polite. She got a lot of sympathetic looks from women. A lot of lascivious glances from men. She caught a glimpse of the Danish Beauty at one point, but the house was big and Tate knew it well. She fled to another room.

  She drank, a lot. She flirted with anyone who looked remotely male. Sanders tried to talk to her at one point, but she looked right through him and walked away. She chugged whiskey neat. Snuck the Johnny Walker Blue out of Jameson’s personal liquor cabinet and finished it off. She laughed at everything everyone said. Kissed people on the cheek, toasted to good health, gave hugs that were way too intimate to people she didn’t really know, though none of the men were complaining.

  She actually drank the bar out of Jack Daniel’s, so she made her way towards the kitchen in search of more. Jameson usually
kept some stocked for her. She wanted to get comfortably numb so she could pass out in the guest house, then hitchhike home in the morning, where she could cry until she died. Sounded like a great plan.

  She turned in to the kitchen, and then backed up so quickly, she rammed in to the door jam, ricocheted off, and nearly fell in to the hall. She scooted behind the frame, and then peeked in to the kitchen. Jameson was standing with his back to her, head down, both hands resting flat on the counter. A tall, exceptionally beautiful brunette stood next to him. She was speaking softly in what sounded like German. He shook his head occasionally, murmuring things back in the same language.

  I didn’t know he spoke German. That could’ve been hot – dirty talk in another language.

  When Pet leaned in close to him, pressed her front to his back and whispered in his ear, Tate couldn’t take it anymore. She had imagined Jameson in all sorts of positions with women, but never simple, affectionate ones. It was too much. She choked on a sob and stumbled away.

  There was a half drunken bottle of Jack in the library, from their long ago last night together. Tate grabbed it and dragged herself upstairs. She wasn’t entirely sure of what her plan was, till she was standing outside Sanders’ door. She just wanted the pain to stop. She wanted to be numb.

  Xanax.

  She walked in to his room. It was a huge space, almost bigger than Jameson’s room. She headed straight for the bathroom, began yanking open drawers and rummaging through them. She found the pills in a bottom drawer, clearly labeled. It took her a while to get the stupid childproof lid off, but she did it. She chugged some whiskey in to her mouth and popped in two pills. She didn’t want to overdue it – she didn’t have a death wish. She just wanted to feel still. Quiet. She swallowed everything and dropped her head back, sighing. She stood that way for several minutes, letting a calm fall over her.

  “I knew you were a good time girl, but I had no idea you were this wild,” someone chuckled from the doorway. She didn’t lift her head, just rolled it towards the voice. What’s-his-name. Dunn. Jameson’s partner. Wensle-waddle-whatever Dunn.

  “I’m wilder than you can even imagine,” Tate whispered at him. He scooted closer so they were both crowded in to the bathroom’s doorway.

  “Sounds like a good time. Would you like to have a good time?” he asked. She laughed.

  “Sorry. I think I’ve had enough good times to last me a lifetime,” she replied, finally turning to face him.

  “Pity. I think we could be really good together. Jameson told me about you,” he told her. She lifted an eyebrow.

  “Did he now,” she replied softly.

  “Yeah. Told me how you like things a little crazy. A lot rough. Now that Pet’s back in the picture, I thought you might need someone else to, uh …, provide those things for you,” Dunn said.

  “He told you that,” she whispered.

  Tate was offended, but it was slipping away. The xanax was taking control. She didn’t really care. Jameson thought she was a whore. Jameson broke his promise. Jameson set up an elaborate plan to cruelly humiliate her. What was one more log on the fire? Jameson told all his friends what a deviant freak she was in bed.

  I just don’t care.

  “So. I think, that, we could have a really fun time together, you and I. I might even be better than Jameson,” Dunn teased.

  No one is better than Jameson.

  “Sure,” she blurted out. Dunn looked surprised.

  “Seriously?” he checked.

  “I just got dumped tonight, right? Very publicly. What could be better than a revenge fuck? Sounds like a plan, let’s suit up,” Tate laughed. Dunn’s hands went to his belt buckle, started pulling it apart.

  Her stomach dipped to the right and she wondered if she would vomit. Hoped she vomited on Dunn. She felt like she was standing outside of herself. She swayed back and forth, wondered if that would help her find her ghost.

  I want Ang. Where’s Ang?

  “So just how rough do you like it, baby?” the guy growled at her, working his pants down his hips. Tate laughed again. It was hollow sounding. Alien. She glanced around. Who was laughing?

  “Hit me with your best shot,” she chuckled.

  He backhanded her so hard that she spun around and her head crashed in to the mirror, breaking it.

  That’s definitely gonna leave a mark.

  She groaned, not even sure what the fuck was going on, when he grabbed the back of her dress and slammed her flat against the granite sink top. She let out a cry as her jaw smacked down hard.

  Okay, there’s rough, and then there’s rough. I may not be boss-bitch enough for this.

  “You’re so fucking hot. I knew the first time I saw you, I had to fuck you. So fucking hot,” Dunn groaned, clawing at her underwear and dragging it down her legs.

  Maybe this isn’t a really super good idea.

  “Wait, wait,” she mumbled. Her tongue felt heavy and thick.

  “You’re gonna love this, I promise,” he grunted, pushing her dress out of the way. She tried to push away from the counter, but her movements were slow and clumsy.

  “Wait, I don’t want -,”

  Tate cried out as he pushed inside of her. She wasn’t exactly prepared for sex, and Mr. Dunn apparently wasn’t interested in foreplay. It was rough, and it hurt. She gripped onto the edge of the sink and bit down on her tongue so hard, she tasted blood. She wanted to say stop, but every time she opened her mouth, only a sob came out. A piece of mirror was biting in to her cheek and she ground her face down harder, welcoming the pain. But then, suddenly, she was being pulled backwards.

  “No no no no no no,” she chanted, trying to grip onto the sink so she could break away. But she couldn’t really flex her fingers and she slid backwards, falling to the floor and landing on her butt. She fell back against the door and then forward, winding up in a heap halfway in the bedroom and halfway in the bathroom. She tried to focus, but the room was so dark and she was so drunk, she couldn’t figure out what going on at first.

  Wrestling. Two people were wrestling. She started to laugh. Jameson was wrestling with Mr. Dunn. They were shouting, but she couldn’t tell what they were saying. Jameson sounded very angry. She glanced down at herself, realized what a fright she must look. Managed to wiggle her underwear back on, push her dress back down, all while still folded up on the floor.

  When she looked back up, the wrestling was over. Mr. Dunn had disappeared. Jameson was slowly walking towards her. She could only see his legs from her position, so she tilted her head back. Back. Waaaay back, taking him all in. He was such an imposing man, a person needed outstanding vision to see him. She blinked up at him.

  “I fell down,” Tate whispered.

  “Yes. Yes you did, baby girl,” Jameson whispered back. She hiccuped.

  “Did you win?” she asked. He sighed and squatted down in front of her.

  “For once, I did not. You dealt the last hand. Had all the chips. Did you invite him in here?” Jameson asked in a gentle voice. Tate shook her head and nearly threw up.

  “No. He came after,” she replied.

  “After what?”

  “Afterrrrr …,”

  “Did you want him to do that?”

  “I thought I did.”

  “You asked him to have sex with you?” Jameson questioned her. Questions. So many questions. Q. What a strange letter.

  “No. He asked me. I can’t feel my lips,” she told him.

  “And you said yes,” Jameson whispered. She nodded.

  “Yes. You have a Danish beauty. I’d like a financier of my own,” she laughed. Jameson smiled down at her.

  “Wait right here, please,” he requested, and then he left the room.

  She laid back down on the floor. Curled up in to the fetal position. She was pretty sure she was crying. What had she done? What had she done!? Something horrible, terrible. Jameson was Satan, but she was worse. He hurt other people, which was bad. She hurt herself, which was so much worse.r />
  All I have is me.

  Jameson came back in to the room. Tate managed to push herself upright again, but had to keep her hands planted on the floor to keep from swaying. He squatted down again, and she looked up at him. Narrowed her eyes. He had something in his arms, bundles of something. He began dropping them on the ground, all in front of her. She looked down, tried to focus.

  Oh my, that is a lot of money.

  When there were no more bundles, she looked back up at him. He had his hands clasped together.

  “Eight weeks. $4,000 a week. Your services are no longer required, Ms. O’Shea. Please get the fuck out of my house,” he said, oh-so-politely.

  Tate held her tears in check until he left the room. Then she sobbed. Climbed to her feet. Stared at the money. She stumbled back in to the bathroom. Tried not to look at the broken mirror or the blood on the counter. She grabbed the bottle of Jack from off the floor, and then swiped the bottle of pills as well. Then, on her way out of the bathroom, she grabbed a set of keys off a hook by the door. When she left the room, she kicked the piles of money out of the way.

  Tate didn’t want to see anybody, didn’t want anyone to see her. She took a set of back stairs, previously service stairs. Had to go out a back door and cut around the side of the house to get to the driveway. No small feat, while wearing five inch heels and borderline black out drunk. When she got to the line of cars, she pushed the car lock button till she saw the Bentley’s lights blink.

  “Thank God,” she groaned, shambling towards it. She had her hand on the door handle when there was a crunching sound.

  “What are you doing!?” a voice yelled from behind her, and then she was being yanked in a circle. Sanders was holding her arms.

  “Sandy!” she cried out, falling to the side. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her upright and then leaned her against the car.

  “Oh my god, what happened?” he asked, holding her face towards the light. She pulled away.

  “Oh Sandy, didn’t he tell you? I won! I finally, finally won. Chalk one up to the little guy. I’m going home now, I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again,” Tate told him, moving and yanking open the car door.